


Rescue Mission

by Fantine_Black



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Child Abuse, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone-centric, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Family Dinners, Gen, Good Original Percival Graves, Hot Chocolate, Huddling For Warmth, Hugs, I need this in my life, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Love, M/M, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Prayer, Protective Original Percival Graves, Short & Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-03 05:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantine_Black/pseuds/Fantine_Black
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin. Percival Graves rescues Credence, because of course he does.





	1. Chapter 1

They'd say he was a soft touch - he was not. Hardship - hunger, pain, cold - was unavoidable in life. A certain immunity to it could be an asset; Graves had suffered his fair share, was trained to withstand it. The brutality of the punishments inflicted on the boy did not faze him, either, much as he disdained it. That, too, he had seen in the war, in POW camps; closer to home in the treatment of creatures and animals. Simply one of the bleaker aspects of what it meant to be human in this world, and it did no good to deny it. No, what wore him down in the few weeks of posting and the sparse interaction with the boy was the hopeless drudgery of Credence's existence. Days, weeks, years of unrelenting cruelty, violence and disdain - some of his comrades killed themselves over less, and this, apparently, was the best the boy could hope for: scraping out the pots and pans of that makeshift soup kitchen, hoping for some sustenance until that bitch of a sister - sent by the mother, he had no doubt - told him to leave the pots and start sweeping the floor.

Percival walked in.

Credence stood frozen in shock as he came close, and Percival put a firm hand on his neck to stifle any fight or flight response, but when the boy immediately nestled his cheek against Percival's collarbone, he cupped the back of his skull with his other hand and stroked his hair.

"Credence," he whispered. "We're going, yes?"

He wrapped his coat around the boy on instinct. The place was frigid, and the boy was so thin.

"Yes, please, sir," Credence whispered. _"Please,_ sir."

"Hold tight, then," he said, and relished the feeling of the boy's arms around his neck.

He fixed the mother, who'd rushed in at the disturbance, with his haughtiest smile.

"They'll never believe you," he smirked, spun, and vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I switched tenses. Hope you don't mind.
> 
> And for anyone who knows the King James Bible - Credence is being creative. Ma wouldn't approve.

Back in his apartment, the boy shivers against him. Percival can feel the bones of his shoulder blades straight through the thin jacket, the worn shirt. It lights a fire in him that he'll have to quell; the boy flinches at the tightening of his muscles, the rough intake of breath he takes to steady himself. "It's OK, sweetheart. How do you feel?" He cups a cheek. "Not nauseous, dizzy?"

The shudder that flows through him at the lightest touch, the pained twisting of his mouth, makes Percival's heart ache. "Don't," he whispers, and Graves stops. "Don't what, sweetheart? What do you need?"

"Don't let go," Credence says, squirming closer against him. "Please, can't - "

Graves swallows. He tightens his hold, presses a kiss to the side of his face. "I won't," he says. "Not one second." 

They stand there longer, but it's cold, and he can't know if Credence's shivering isn't at least partly because of the chill. He tucks the boy against his side. "I have to take off my cloak," he says. "Will you hold on to me, darling?"

He gulps, nods. Percival takes the cloak off and drops it on the stand by magic, immediately puts an arm back around Credence and steers him to the living room. "That's it," he says, "there's a boy," at his unsure steps, the tension at the unfamiliar surroundings. Graves walks to the sofa and sits them both down. He wordlessly summons a blanket when Credence snuggles up against him, puts it over his shoulders.

The poor boy does not seem to know what to do with the sensation. He's pawing at him like a puppy, and Graves turns the boy's face into his chest, strokes Credence's cheekbone with his thumb; feels the smallest hint of stubble. He turns the fire up with a quick, wordless _Incendio, _then takes both Credence's hands in his own.

The boy cries soundlessly.

Graves holds him more tightly, kisses the bridge of his nose, and finally the boy dares to turn into him properly, put his arms around Graves' neck and sob against his shoulder. Graves cups the back of his neck and rubs his back in a strong, circular motion. "Shhh," he whispers in his hair, but lets him cry, and as the boy clings to him Graves presses back, tight, until he feels him relax. He kisses his cheek and they both lie there, until Credence moves his head and Graves tucks him back against his side.

He smiles as the boy looks up, squeezes his cold, battered hands. "Hi there."

But he stiffens, tries to curl up. "I'm sorry..."

Graves straightens. "Credence, I am not mad," he says at his cowering form. "Tell me what you need." 

But all he gets is silence, a deer in headlights. Graves rubs Credence's side. "Do you need me to let you go?" 

Again, silence. It seems like this is all the no he is going to get. "Whatever you need, baby, I'll give it to you. Do you want me to stay with you?"

"Please," Credence says, turning red with embarassement. "Please, sir, I'm sorry..." 

Graves squeezes his hand again. "Thank you for telling me. That was brave of you." And then he presses him against his side with his left arm, heart to heart, and with his right he continues stroking: his face, along his side, his back, always firm yet gentle movements. Credence shakes apart as if gripped by a fever, and soon Graves' hand is back on his neck as Credence buries his face completely against his chest. Graves holds him so tight, chin resting lightly on his head, trying hard to take deep, steadying breaths.

It's OK, my boy. I'm here. You're safe.

Daddy's here.

With a deep, rattling sigh, the boy goes slack and Graves sits there, warming him with his body, his arms, his heart, pressing a kiss to his crown. The crying has stopped, and Credence is lax and warm in his arms, breaths becoming deeper. Graves leans his own head back, cups his boy's face.

"You must be hungry." 

He tenses again. "I'm - "

Graves kisses his nose. "I know I am. Will you eat with me?"

A small, shaky nod. 

"I'll have to heat it up, but the Elves make a mean minestrone." 

He nudges Credence, who all but jumps up, and leads him over to an armchair near the fire. Graves takes his ratty jacket and tie before he tucks him in the blanket again. "You stay here, love. Won't be a minute."

Those eyes, far too big in a thin face. "You cook, sir?"

He laughs. "That's too much credit. I keep myself fed, provided there's no catering. Here, I prefer to order in." Credence licks his lips, and Graves smiles. Poor boy looks more than halfway dead at the mere mention of food.

Graves' arms feel empty as he busies himself in his kitchen.

He curses himself for being such a perfunctory eater. Too much seabass, caviar and quail's egg, food meant to impress rather than sustain, have made him cultivate rather simple tastes when not at official functions. It's easy to make do with vegetable soup and bread when it's just him, but now it looks meagre in the extreme; he tries to fluff up the tomato salad with some extra mozzarella, butters the slices of bread, cuts up cheeses and salami and starts fixing some hot cocoa, to serve with a few leftover slices of banana bread for dessert (he's more of a sweet tooth than he likes to admit). 

Still, it's not much. He'll instruct Queenie to update his meal plan tomorrow. 

Tomorrow... He'll have to check in with Seraphina at the very least. If his suspicions are correct, he'll also have to come up with a game plan. Credence's Obscurial status, if that's indeed what he is, is unprecedented, and Graves will have to milk every legal loophole that affords him. 

Because Credence is not going anywhere. 

The thought shocks him. He by no means intends to imprison the boy, but - great Morgana, look at him. Chewed up and spit out, it's outrageous. Naked against adversity for his whole life and it will not _do_.

Credence, meanwhile, is looking at him with eyes so liquid and dark it hurts. Graves mumbles a small multiplication spell over the food he's not scooping onto their plates. Each refill causes a slight decrease in quality, but that's usually only noticable after the sixth helping or so. And this food may not be fancy, but he's damned if he doesn't make sure the boy gets enough.

He puts the food on the table, gives Credence a short nod. "Come eat, my boy." 

He walks as if in a minefield, but he reaches a chair and sits down, smoothing down his hair. He looks at him. "Do you want to say grace, sir? Or... should I?"

Graves tries to smile reassuringly, though he'd like to have words with that so called God of his. "Whatever you prefer, Credence, though I must warn you I am not a praying man." 

This seems to frighten him. "Then how do you know the difference between good and evil?" 

"You don't," he says. "Not always. But I do not mean you harm, Credence. There are laws against that, too, if that thought brings you comfort." 

He lowers his eyes. "May I start?" 

Graves strokes his hair. "Please." 

"Bless this, Christ, thy bounty," he says, voice forever halting, yet gaining in strength, "and...and bless Mr. Graves, for I was a stranger, and he took me in, and I was in prison, and he came unto me..." 

Graves' hand stills. "Credence..."

He looks him straight in the eyes now, as he continues: "And the Lord says, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

They're both silent before Credence bows his head again. "In Jesus' name, amen." 

Graves puts a hand, very softly, on his neck and squeezes.

"Thank you," he says, "thank you for that." 

He looks up again. "I can stay then?" 

Graves cups his face. "Yes, you can stay, Credence," he says, "and if anyone says different, I will fight them, fight them with everything I have." He points at the soup. "Please, my dear boy. Eat." 

And Credence starts, a small measured bite, but then another, and another, stuffing his face as fast as he can, ripping off pieces of bread, and Graves has to stop him. 

He immediately cramps up, eyeing the food and giving Graves a pleading, but resigned look.

It takes Graves a second too long to figure out the meaning as Credence sits there, shoulders hunched.

"I will _not_ take it away," he says, trying very hard to keep his voice steady. "There is as much as you want." He summons a pitcher of pumpkin juice. "Drink up, you've burnt your mouth." 

He leans into Graves' shoulder. "It's the best I've ever had." 

"Everything tastes great when you're starving," he says, rubbing his back. "I know how it feels." 

Credence frowns. "You do?"

"We've had our supply lines cut," Graves says. He pushes the plate towards him. "Eat up. Slowly, or you'll hurt your stomach." 

Credence tries to pace himself, but only puts his spoon down a second time well into his third helping. Graves sees him wince and stands up to get to his selection of potions. "Would you like some tea?" 

"Please," he whispers, wincing again, and Graves adds a few drops of broad spectrum healing potion to the mint leaves. 

Credence cups the mug protectively after Graves hands it to him, and Graves looks at his fingers. "That looks painful." 

Credence shakes his head. "It's Thursday." At Graves' look he says: "Ma... she usually beats us on Fridays, sir." 

Graves needs to _kill _something, now, but the boy's frightened look at even the most minute shifts makes him breathe it out.

"If you're finished, I'll show you where you sleep," he says, and "Leave those!" when Credence immediately starts gathering up the dishes. "Please."

The boy's eyes flicker to him. "But shouldn't I..."

Graves puts a hand between his shoulder blades. "Please indulge me," he whispers, and the boy breathes out. Graves softly ushers him to the guest room. "There's pajamas, slippers and a dressing gown in the closet," he says. "They may be a little short, so you might want some socks, too." The boy looks at him again, a protestation on his lips, so he strokes his face. "There's cocoa and dessert when you're ready." 

This seems to be too much. "Why?" Credence sobs as he throws his arms around him.

Graves cups his skull, whispers in his ear. "Because it's right, Credence. Because you deserve it. You've always deserved it." 

He looks back. "But I can't do anything for you," he laments. "I can't thank you, I can't..." 

"Credence," Graves says. "One day you will be in the position to help somebody else. If you wish to pay me back, help them." 

He blinks away tears, puts his head on Graves' shoulder. "I prayed for you," he whispers. "I prayed for you, and you came." 

Graves doesn't answer, just presses a kiss to his cheek. "Get changed, love," he says eventually. Credence, eager, walks to the closet, and Graves leaves the room. 

And sags against the wall.

He's always kept his people at arm's length - they might die on him. He'll gladly die first but they might die on him.

The weight of that cold knowledge has been such a constant pressure, a companion, that he doesn't even notice it anymore. It's a pain then only felt by its sudden absence.The boy fits so perfectly into the void that it scares him. 

He's given his life to the wizarding world, but it may not be his to give anymore. Credence has it, and he doesn't even know. 

Graves presses his hands to his face.

Can he have the boy? Truly have him? Or is he destined to leave, magnificent, and leave Graves this life, that already feels hollow and barren at the thought? 

He hears Credence move and stands up. He's promised him cocoa, so cocoa he shall have. He spikes his own cup with a generous amount of Firewhiskey.

When Credence appears, Graves hands him the cup with a watery smile. He gets a small one in return, and without a word, Credence presses himself to Graves' side again.

He fits there. It's devastating.

Graves squeezes him. "Go sit by the fire. I'll get dessert."

When he comes over, Credence is not in the chair, but on the floor, legs tucked up, staring into the flames. 

"Credence, don't you - "

"No sir," he says. "Thank you. I'm fine here." 

"But won't you..."

"Please sir," he says, something hungry in his eyes. "Please sit." 

Graves does, and the boy leans back against his legs, face at his knee. Graves slowly pets his hand through the short black hair. "Yes sir," the boy gasps, eyes closed, "please, sir." 

Graves gulps something down, takes another drink of spiked chocolate. 

He hands him the slice of banana bread. "Here you go," he says, watching Credence nibble, intensely slow bites, savouring it now the first hunger is sated. 

Graves feels something grip him. "Get off that floor, you're getting cold," he says, voice gruff, and a second later the boy is curling up in his arms as if he fucking belongs there; as if they're his.

Because they are. 

Again Graves holds him, and breathes, and lets him rest against his shoulder. 

Two seconds later, the boy's out cold.

Graves laughs, hugs him tighter, and wraps the blanket around them both. Credence will cut off his circulation soon, sitting like this, but Graves will float him to bed when he does; he'll have him clean his teeth in the morning. 

He sits now, and holds him, and feels something half forgotten bubble up, discarded in duty, pain, violence and war.

_Safety_, his heart whispers. _Peace_.

Credence snores. Graves laughs again, kisses him, and then moves to get him settled.


End file.
